The plane touched down on the high plateau, rolling to a stop before the terminal. Kek awaited his turn to leave the plane, not overly surprised at the sharp chill in the air. October in Madrid was vastly different in temperature from October in Lisbon; here winter came early and stayed long. He wished he had brought along a topcoat but then reflected it would merely have been one more piece of clothing for the Madrid customs people to maul and wrinkle. Anita complained enough as it was about the condition of his clothes when he returned from a trip.
He descended the steep aluminum steps and followed the straggling line of passengers into the terminal building, grateful for the heat provided even this early in the cold season. With the others he stood patiently in line at immigration and received, eventually, the usual stamp to add to the already large collection in his passport. With a sigh at the inevitability of the search he knew would be forthcoming, he walked into customs and handed his passport to the first inspector he saw, prepared for the worst.
He was not disappointed. The inspector he had selected, he suspected, had been passed over once for advancement and was determined not to have it happen again, if dedication to his job could prevent it. He went about his task of searching Kek with a thoroughness and eagerness equal to anything Huuygens had encountered anywhere before. Still, he was sure that with any other inspector the result would have been the same; it was an occupational hazard with him. By the time the enthusiastic inspector reluctantly gave up and allowed Kek to leave the little private office, the other passengers had all cleared customs and left the depressing area deserted, the luggage counters twisted and littered with tags and papers. Kek walked into the terminal lobby, straightening his jacket and consulting his wristwatch.
Six in the evening, Madrid time. Almost twenty hours since he had left Ezeiza in Buenos Aires, and still more time to be spent and work to be done. The thought of a hot shower, followed by a good meal both preceded and accompanied by Don Carlos Primero, was pleasant to contemplate, but unfortunately the schedule did not permit. Ah, well, he said to himself, nobody forced you to take up smuggling as a career... He sighed and walked over to the KLM counter, prepared to carry on his charade. A young man moved over to take care of Kek and his problem; he might have been a brother to the one in Lisbon. Kek felt sorry for the whole family.
“Sir?”
“A suitcase,” Kek said with a weariness not all simulated. “The name is Huuygens.”
The clerk frowned uncertainly. “I beg your pardon?”
“A suitcase,” Kek repeated, his voice a trifle sharper. “A brown suitcase in a plaid canvas cover. With an identification tag under the handle. Clearly marked with my name, which happens to be Huuygens.”
“I’m sorry. Do you mean you left it here with someone? I don’t believe I’ve seen any suitcase—”
“No!” Kek shook his head impatiently. “Listen carefully,” he said, speaking distinctly and spacing his words in a manner used with the hard-of-hearing or the mentally deficient. “I flew from Buenos Aires to Lisbon by KLM, flight number eight thirty-two. I arrived in Lisbon around noon or a little before. My suitcase did not. I complained to the KLM people in Lisbon. They checked by teletype and verified that some idiot somewhere along the line had apparently mis-tagged my bag and that it had gone on to Amsterdam. They said they would fly it to Madrid so that it would be here when I arrived. I have now arrived. I am asking for my bag.” He studied the young man carefully, as if to make sure his masterful and cogent exposition had not been wasted. “Do you have the faintest idea of what I’m talking about?” he asked curiously.
The young man shook his head. “They were going to send your suitcase here to Madrid? We’ve heard nothing about it.” A thought occurred to him. “It would have been held between immigration and customs—”
“I just came through there,” Kek said.
“Yes, sir. I would have known, anyway...” The young man shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”
Kek visibly forced down his anger, sighing in frustration instead. He ran his hand through his thick, curly hair, pounded it softly on the counter, and looked about the lobby as if seeking some reason to control himself. It was too much! This massive demonstration of absolute, complete disorganization was not to be tolerated! He brought his eyes back to the pale youth waiting on the other side of the counter.
“Tell me,” Kek said quietly, the totality of his irritation now plainly beyond a mere exhibition of temper, “what does it take to get one’s luggage from your company? Dynamite? Blackmail? A personal acquaintanceship with a director? Don’t be afraid — tell me and I’ll try to arrange it.”
The young man’s face was red. “They always let us know about luggage that has gone astray and is being sent to us, sir,” he said. “We have to see it’s picked up from the stewardess and held at the customs barrier. And we’ve had no—”
“—word about a suitcase for me,” Kek finished. “And there’s been more than ample time for it to have arrived.” He nodded and leaned forward confidentially, his voice quiet. “Tell me something: Do you suppose your people in Amsterdam would be greatly disturbed if we broke an apparent rule and teletyped them to ask WHAT IN HELL THEY’VE DONE WITH MY SUITCASE?”
The young man jumped back from the blast, his face white.
“No, sir,” he said hurriedly. “I’m sorry. I’ll get right on the teletype to them and find out what’s happened.”
“Thank you,” Kek said courteously. “And tell them that I’m a patient man but my patience is fraying. As are the cuffs of my shirt, and if I get some rare skin ailment from wearing it endlessly, I shall sue them for my doctor bills. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell them...”
“Thank you,” Kek said politely and watched the young man escape into the rear room of the airline section. He was sorry to be so brusque, but there was nothing else for it. He stopped worrying about it and wandered over to buy a Paris-Match to pass the time. He came back and leaned on the counter top, reading the inevitable article in that magazine on mountain climbing; he had come to the usual statistics on comparative avalanche damage, when the young man sidled up on the other side of the counter and cleared his throat. He was bearing a strip of yellow paper torn from the teletype machine and he looked as if he were on his way to the dentist.
“Sir...”
Kek looked up from the magazine article; this year Chamonix had managed to outdo Kandersteg in both damage and deaths. French pride was assuaged. “Yes?”
“There’s apparently been some—” The young man faltered on the word “mistake.” Still, “error” would be no better, and he was sure that a reprise of “mis-tagged” would bring down the vaulted ceiling. He swallowed painfully. “Your bag is just coming into Barcelona on a plane now, sir...”
Kek stared at him, utterly stunned. The magazine lay forgotten.
“May I ask what it’s doing in Barcelona? You did say Barcelona, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know, sir. I mean, they sent it there.”
“They sent it there. To Barcelona. Where it’s coming in to land. And where it will wait.” Kek’s voice was conversational. “Tell me, since I have neither immediate nor long-range plans for visiting Barcelona, how long do you think my bag will wait for me before it decides it’s tired of waiting and just goes off?”